Triumphant
by edka88
Summary: Christine expected to find solace at her father's grave after the masquerade but her journey had a disturbing turn of events on her life instead.
1. Chapter 1

Hello dear readers! Thank you so much for every one of you who reviewed or favorited my latest story, you brightened my days! I wish I could have answered anonymous reviews as well but anyway, I'm so happy you're all reading my stories. So here is another one: at first I wanted it to be a one-shot but then decided to turn in into a short story. I don't have any idea why it took me so long to finish six chapters, but they are finished now. I hope you'll like this story as well!

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><p><strong>Ch01<strong>

She expected the first crimson droplets to appear on the snow with the loud cry of pain of her Angel but there was none of it. Hope was promising her that she'd just imagined the harsh sound but then her eyes fell on his still form on the ground, clutching at his shoulder, his face contorted with agony. Breathing became a struggle for her; his eyes were half-closed and his chest moved rapidly with his shallow breathing.

Someone grabbed her upper arm – Raoul was standing beside her. "Christine!"

When she didn't respond, he shook her lightly. "Christine! Come now! He can't follow us!"

But her eyes were still riveted on the lying form of the Phantom; his head rested on the snow, wheezing alone on the frozen ground while she was standing only a few feet away from him. A dark shadow appeared under his shoulder and it took Christine a few moments to register that it was the dreaded red liquid seeping from his wound.

"And what about him?" Christine whispered, never once looking at her fiancée who was holding her arm in his grasp.

"I don't care about him!" Raoul said and pulled her towards the awaiting horse but she struggled to free herself from his hand. "He tried to kill me and threatened you; his life is none of my concern anymore," he continued; when he reached for her again, though, she yanked her arm out of his reach and stepped back. His arm fell to his side and it seemed he took a small step back as well.

"Don't touch me!"

"What's wrong, Christine? You said you want to be free of him. What's the matter now?"

"Now you want me to leave him here to die as if… I can't believe you've just suggested that." She wanted to sidestep him and she saw how his face twitched when she did so. From the corner of her eyes she saw that he tried to follow her as she passed beside him but when she ventured a furtive glance towards his direction again, he was standing on the exact same spot.

"You're trying to save a murderer!" Raoul argued, sweeping one arm carelessly towards the unmoving figure in the snow.

"But he's also a person. I can't leave him here."

"That's why you didn't want our engagement to be announced in public, isn't it? You love him!"

The crimson stain under the dangerously still form grew with every passing moment

"I don't!" She cried and threw an offended look at Raoul before rushing to the side of the Phantom and fell to her knees next to him. He didn't even stir and her heart dropped; she immediately leaned closer to make sure he was still breathing. The soft sound of the breezing air gave her hope.

"I'm sure you not," Raoul growled and took a step back, taking the reins of the horse. Christine looked up at him; of course she didn't expect him to help but still…

"So you're leaving?" This time her voice wasn't as confident as before and it wasn't even steady, it wavered against her will.

"Yes. You don't need me."

"But…" o_ur engagement…_"…what we agreed upon…"

"It seems it was as hurried indeed as your guardian thought."

Christine inwardly winced. Last evening, when they informed Madame Giry about their future wedding she greeted it with a polite smile and expressed her best wishes to the two of them, but later she asked Christine whether it was not too hastily arranged. She felt deeply offended by the question but now that she thought about it, Madame Giry had a point. It was based on memories and her fear of her former teacher - not very well founded start for a marriage.

The unmoving form in front of her was shook by a long shudder but he showed no signs of trying to move on his own. Something was squeezing Christine's throat, making it impossible not just to speak but to breathe as well.

Raoul would not help her, she was sure of that much. _Alone again._ Or was she? He didn't say that their engagement was over but continued to stand beside the horse, watching her – or rather them – with some expression she didn't want to name, nor acknowledge. Her Angel had betrayed her, her fiancée likewise, and now the Phantom was slowly bleeding to death right in front of her.

The man in front of her gave away the softest moan and since she knew nothing better to help him in his desperate state, she touched his hand - he stilled immediately but did nothing else. The first, warning quiver of sobs ran down her spine.

"So this is it? You consider it all over?" Her voice was steadier than she had imagined it would be, though she couldn't bring herself to look into her fiancée's eyes before the last word.

"Is it not?" He retorted, motioning with his eyes to their entwined hands.

_Why won't you just say it? _"Yes, it is!" She snarled, watching how Raoul mounted the horse and left without another word. She had no desire to figure out who was at fault. It wouldn't change a thing.

Better if she concentrated on the most burning questions at hand. _What to do now?_ He couldn't stay there on the ground but she wouldn't even think to move him on her own. She tapped his face lightly: no answer. Frantically, she leaned over, listening to his breathing – he was still alive. She tried to wake him again, this time using more strength when touching his face.

"You need to wake up," she murmured under her breath and his eyes cracked open but it took him a second to focus on her face. She realized how his eyes seemed the lightest green in the morning light.

"What are you doing here?" He asked her, his voice rasp and cracking even in his whisper.

"You can't stay on the ground," she answered dumbly and he tried to comply before he hissed and fell back. Christine moved her arms to help him sit but he barked at her rudely.

"Don't!"

"You can't do it alone," she protested and tried again.

"Leave me alone!" No doubt his voice was meant to be dismissive and strong but in fact it was detached and weak, and along with his half-closed eyes he made a rather startling appearance. "Why waste your time instead of running away with your savior, now that you're free of me?"

"You would deserve to be slapped for that," she muttered then leaning over she slipped one arm around his shoulders and lifted him into a sedentary position. Even his coat was soaked with blood, not to mention the huge puddle on the ground. The blood made her fingers sticky and she felt ill.

"You need a doctor," she choked, seeing how he fought consciousness. His breath was shallow and rapid again, his face drained of color but his hand clutched at hers with inhuman force as he looked at her sharply.

"Don't even think it."

"I have no other idea! I don't know what to do but they'll know."

He strove to swallow before speaking again. "I can tell you. Go back… to the opera."

"You can barely speak! And I can't take you so far," she argued, tears finally creeping into her eyes. It was tempting to give in to her sobs but unfortunately there was no time for such luxuries. His life depended on her now and she didn't like the knowledge the slightest. It was as if by staying with him she took the responsibility for his life and it was frightening, it was like playing God but she knew she wasn't omnipotent. She wasn't even sure how her short engagement ended in breaking it in two minutes!

"I can go back," the man in her arms whispered and she would have laughed at him if she wasn't halfway to sobbing. He could hardly keep his eyes open.

"I'll help you to stand," she conceded, taking his uninjured arm and pulling him up. Sweat was beginning to form on his forehead and her legs almost buckled as she had to brace him when he swayed under his own weight.

It was a miracle how they got back to the opera house, really; Christine had no idea how this man, who couldn't stand on his own could get so far, even with her help. From time to time he motioned for the direction they should walk, and somehow they managed to get back to the opera house; when they were finally inside the building Christine didn't remember anything else from their route then the dirty cobblestones and his weight against her shoulders. They entered the catacombs through her mirror, and to her constant prodding he revealed bit by bit where to turn, but when he tried to open the mechanisms his weakened hands didn't have the ability to obey him, she had to press her blood-covered fingers over his, smearing his knuckles as well.

By the time they reached his home she was rather dragging than supporting his frame.

"Which way?" She asked once they were finally in the house. She had to listen very carefully to hear when he gave his answer.

"Left."

To her astonishment, the house didn't consist of only the two rooms she'd already knew of. There was a short hallway with a door in its end; she opened it without difficulty. It was a rather small but tidy room since there wasn't too much in it. Christine led him to the bed in the corner, yanking back the cover before allowing rest to her patient. He sank ungracefully to the bed, weakly reaching for the tie of his cloak then fumbling with the string; when it finally gave away he swept it from his shoulder and went to unbutton his coat. Christine was there to help him take it off, swallowing with difficulty when her fingers came in contact with the sticky material. But the worse was just to come: the parts of his shirt that weren't covered by the waistcoat were red all over his wound, and the metallic scent of blood filled her nostrils.

Quickly depositing the obstructive vest and tie she went to remove his shirt, not giving a thought to propriety, but when she was faced with the dark, red liquid dried to his skin and the still leaking lighter drops she felt bile rising in her throat. She should have braced herself for the sight way earlier.

"There is a box in the first counter," he managed to say, pointing at a door in the distance. Her eyes followed his finger, then she looked back at him worriedly. He wouldn't die in thirty seconds if he hadn't in the last thirty minutes, would he?

Rushing to the direction he motioned for she dragged out every drawer and opened every door she found until she came upon a rather large, rectangular box, containing medical necessities, syringes, bandages and who knew how many accessories. As an afterthought, she filled a pot with water and grabbed the towel next to the basin.

By the time she arrived back he took up a seemingly uncomfortable position while sitting on the bed – his good arm was held out and he doubled over it, taking shuddering, uneven breaths. Sickness rose in her throat but it had nothing to do with the sight of the blood anymore.

"I'm back," she addressed him and only the slightest drop of his head signed that he indeed nodded. Unceremoniously, she placed everything on the floor.

"I've brought water," she said and realized that mostly she was talking for herself, not for him – most probably her act wouldn't go unnoticed nor would he answer, but she needed to break the sound of his ragged breathing, that constant remainder of his painful state for she began to feel the same distress that he did.

The material of her dress tangled between her legs as she knelt beside him, dipping the towel into the water.

"Let me see it," she asked him while wringing the towel and he straightened his body as best as he could.

"You have to… wash your hands first," he rasped and she hastily left without a word, returning in less then a minute.

"You can finish it alone, right?" He asked her as she wringed the towel again and began wiping away the dried blood from his skin.

"No! You said you'd help me!" Meanwhile she reached the tender area right next to the cut and he could barely suppress a hiss of pain.

"There's not much left to say," he heaved. "You clean it with the antiseptic and close it. It's simple… You just have to bind the stitches separately."

"I'm not a surgeon! I'm not even a nurse! I told you to go to a doctor!" But now it was too late, she wanted to add; now it was only the two of them. And most probably she had to do the rest all alone; he was slightly swaying even in his sitting position. "You'd better lay down," she choked, trying to swallow back that _something_ in her throat; at her words he took a deep breath and turned to his side, finally leaning back on the bed where he released a shuddering sigh. A chill ran down her spine.

"Which bottle is the antiseptic?"

"Green…"

Rummaging through the content of the box she pulled out a white cloth, pouring a good amount of liquid from the bottle on it – she felt its smell on the back of her throat. But what was worse, it reminded her of another negative attribute of that liquid…

A loud grunt of pain was torn from his throat as she applied it on his skin.

…it hurt like hell.

As careful as it was possible she cleared the damaged area, wincing every time she heard a sign of being in pain from him. Her eyes were burning but not from tears, her arms were shaking but not from fear but the worse was that wordless silence that was filled with his labored breathing. All she could hear was his breathing.

"I should have called for Madame Giry at least," she murmured and his half-closed eyes snapped open, staring at her widely as his previously limp fingers closed around her forearm with surprising strength.

"No! Don't let anybody come down here! Anyone!"

"I won't!" She promised defensively and felt her control slipping away. There was no real knowledge behind his words anymore, his sight, though focused, was not seeing anymore – his delusional state was way more frightening than the thought of him being unconscious. She tried to convince herself that he still had some control over his actions but deep inside she knew he hadn't.

_You can't leave me alone…_

Forcing calmness on herself Christine reached into the box again - this time without any kind of help from him; whether he was sleeping or passed out she had no idea. It wasn't very difficult until she slipped the thread in the strange, C shaped needle but air left her lungs in one, short sigh when she fitted the edges of his wound together with her left hand. There really was no one else who would do this for her and he obviously didn't heal on his own in the last two minutes, either.

When she finally pushed the needle into his skin she wanted to scream and retch at the same time, and the man beneath her hands made a feeble attempt to move away from her but fortunately he gave no sound. She _would_ have screamed if he did.

Without any kind of further guidance on how one was supposed to sew a cut, Christine finally decided to do little knots on every stitch – it was the closest to the short instruction he had given her. The thread became red from white with the first pull and she had to look away.

Wax pooled at the bottom of the candle and she tried to concentrate on nothing else but the growing white puddle while taking a deep breath.

She swallowed.

_I can't be ill right now._

Momentarily she closed her eyes and drew another deep intake of breath before turning back to her task again.

_I can do this._

But it was worse and worse with every stitch: the needle was slippery between her fingers and it wasn't easy to find the right strength for her task, finding the skin far too thick to consider it a special kind of fabric she was working on. Now she was perfectly aware of the reason why the needle was curved but she wished she could have remained unknowing of that fact.

Her eyes returned to the little table again._ Wax… There is a growing puddle of wax under the candle…_

When the long cut was finally sealed she dropped the needle into the box with relief.

_It's over… It's over… It's over…_

For moments she stared at the damaged skin of his shoulder – now covered with stitches and still red from blood. _It's over._

But it wasn't. After taking some calming breaths she wiped it again with antiseptic; then took a good amount from the bandages and placed it to his still bleeding injury, securing it with some more gauze. His chest rose and fell with his heavy breathing.

_Oh, tell me what am I doing because I don't know it anymore._


	2. Chapter 2

**Ch02**

_Rising and falling. Rising and falling._

Christine braced herself on the edge of the bed, not daring to look away from his constantly moving chest in the fear he would stop breathing.

_Rising and falling._

She took a deep sigh of relief – and it came out as a wrecked, voiceless sob. It took her several moments until she could force another sip of air into her lungs. She sunk back to her heels and pressed her back to the side of the bed, cringing slightly when its edge pressed into her spine with every quiver.

_It's over. He'll be fine._

It wasn't convincing, though. His blood clung to her fingers, it stained her dress, visible even on the black material; it was in the water, on the cloth she cleared his wound with, on the sheets, and it soaked his clothes as well.

She doubled over, hugging her knees to her chest and resting her head atop them. They should have gone to a physician but now he was…

Her head snapped up and she peered over her shoulder – he was still breathing.

"Keep doing so," she whispered shakily to the motionless form.

They should have fetched Madame Giry at least. He was only half-conscious when he said he didn't want her to come; maybe he didn't know what he was saying.

_It doesn't matter now._

His chest was rising and falling evenly, and finally she allowed herself to look away from him. There was only one candle left burning on the nightstand.

_Just like when father…_

Air left her lungs again and her whole frame began to tremble again.

_No. He's so strong. He can't die because I don't want him to._

_Not as if it would matter the slightest…_

Breathing was more and more difficult through her swollen nose, causing her to cough amidst the tears, what only caused even less air - she grabbed her knees to straighten her posture and drew a full breath already. Her eyes were burning, then itching, and tears still trickled between her fingers.

_He'll be fine._

So much strength crumpled beneath one single moment…

He was so different last night. Arrogant, confident and frightening, obviously uncaring about anyone else than himself – and her. As he descended slowly on the stairs and started for her she believed he would kiss her, and she wasn't sure she would have protested against it at all. There was something in his eyes that made her forget about what he'd done and beside anger she was utterly disappointed when in the end he left with the ring.

Probably it would take a very long time until he would think of kissing her again.

The sound of his slow breathing filled the room.

_He'll be fine._

With a final, uneven sniffle she rose from her knees and lit at least twenty more candles but then smothered half of them. Who knew how many was left of them and perhaps she would spend days down there. The thought knotted her stomach. Without him she had no idea where exactly she was, just that she was _somewhere_ beneath the opera house, and the only one who knew it presumably would be asleep for a very long time.

Her eyes returned to him again – still breathing.

Lifting the cover she carefully draped it over him. He certainly didn't sleep with the mask on his face but taking it off… it was enough to endure that once.

For now, the mask would stay on its place.

It wouldn't take her too long to go mad beside that bed. Every time she looked away from him her eyes returned to his form as if only her sight kept him alive. She knew it was ridiculous yet continued to stare at him anyway. It took her sixty-eight of his breaths to convince herself that she could move away from him.

First she got rid of the water and went on searching for a basin for the clothes to steep them in, then put away the medical necessities into the box and placed it on the bedside table, since they would be soon needed again when changing the bandages. Finally she cleared the stain from her dress, deciding to leave it on since she had no other to change into.

All the while, she was rushing back to his room in every two minutes to check his breathing.

When all was done she took a coverlet from the back of an armchair, draped it over her shoulders and took her place in another one next to his bed, and fixed her eyes once again on the rise and fall of his chest.

It was going to be a torturous wait.

- o -

The first few hours were uneventful. He didn't stir, he didn't move, he didn't wake. The steady sound of his breathing eventually lulled her to sleep and at some point she drifted off to a fitful slumber. Some time later she woke to being unbearably hungry – she hadn't had anything before she left for the cemetery – and went to the kitchen to prepare a quick meal.

That complete, buzzing silence soon drove her to the end of her nerves. There was no sound in the house except the soft ticking of the clock in the parlor, but it could only be heard in that one room. It was hard to imagine that none of the sounds of the opera house penetrated so far under the ground; especially that most likely there were a lot of them by now – Christine Daae disappeared again!

She took a sip from her tea. Maybe they didn't even consider her absence unusual and after what happened Raoul certainly wouldn't start a chase after her. Even Christine was surprised that she didn't blame it on him.

Carrying the tray with the food she took up her guard next to the bed again.

_He would be awake soon._

However, the next day began just as uneventfully. His steady breathing gave her hope, though, despite the fact that he was pale, paler than his usual self and sweat was forming on his forehead.

She resolved on ignoring her earlier determination to leave the mask on his face. Filling a bowl with cold water she dipped her handkerchief in it and wiped it over the visible part of his face, then she moved her trembling fingers to the edge of the white leather, lifted it, and placed it on the nightstand.

Nothing changed. His face was still as horrible to look upon as it was the first time. She took special care not to touch it when wiping his forehead but her curiosity couldn't rest. Her fingers drew nearer and nearer to the damaged area with every wipe, until she allowed her fingertips to graze the edges of it. It didn't differ from the rest of his face; the skin on it was soft and warm, and on some places a little callous. But it didn't infect her and it didn't condemn her, either, as she feared so unreasonably. Now it was really embarrassing to admit herself that she even considered those possible occurrences as realistic threats.

Wiping his forehead again she traced the other parts of his deformity with the pads of her fingers, stopping before reaching his upturned, swollen lips.

_Is it not troubling when he kisses someone?_

She didn't like to believe that she alone had ever cared for him though most probably it was true. Why would he live underground if he had anyone to talk to aboveground?

And she had said everything to Raoul three months ago. Her body suddenly felt ten times heavier than it did before. _Traitor…_

She pulled back her hand guiltily.

She betrayed him again.

It was much easier until she thought him to be an angel. Or rather until Raoul showed up. But mostly until she didn't knew the Phantom's wrath. If there was a way to redo all of these… but now at least she _knew_ what would have remained hidden otherwise.

Maybe it was for the better, after all, and she had more important tasks than dwelling on the past. Laying her palm on his temple she made certain that he wasn't feverish and with a final wipe she dropped the handkerchief into the bowl. She then lifted the blanket to check his bandages as well; there was a dark shadow of red on the gauze. Her fingers gently peeled off the layers one by one and examined the stitches: the black little lines of threads stood out threateningly from the generally slightly red area, but since he had no fever she decided that it couldn't have been infected, nor inflamed.

Pouring some antiseptic on a small cloth she cleared the damaged area again, shuddering with sympathy when his brows furrowed even in his sleep as the liquid fizzled on his skin. When it was done clean bandages were wrapped on the stitches that she secured now with a little more experience, then she straightened the cover on him.

He was still sleeping soundly.

He should have woken up by now; if from nothing else, from her inexperienced ministrations at least. He needed to eat but most of all drink, and he could neither in his unconscious state.

It was only an hour later that his eyelids opened finally and Christine rushed to him, lowering herself to the edge of the bed warily. He was looking up at her as if he didn't expect to find her there.

"Why are you here?" He asked, his voice rasp and tired, nowhere near to the usual musical resonance she got used to.

"Taking care of you," she responded after a short thinking. After she spent more than a day on her own it was truly hard to remember how to speak. "Here," she filled a glass with water and wanted to hand it to him but he didn't try to sit up at all. Crawling closer to him Christine lifted his head, supporting it with her arm while handing the glass to him. His arms wavered as he reached for it, his fingers curling around it securely, then emptied it with only a few, greedy gulps and she took back the glass while laying him down again.

"No one else is here, is there?"

"Just me," she whispered.

"Good," he concluded and his eyes closed again.

Christine doubted he would remember that they ever had this conversation.

- o -

Candles were dwindling away quite fast since she refused to burn less than ten at a time in the room. He must have left some more stashed away… somewhere. She already turned the kitchen upside down and there wasn't any left in the bathroom, either. While walking back to his room it occurred to her that she never looked for candles on the most obvious place, in the drawers of his desk. He must have spent a lot of time there.

However, she stopped short before approaching it. Just in case she'd find anything interesting there she surely couldn't stop herself from reading it right away and she'd already stepped through the boundary of his privacy when discarding his mask.

She sighed. She would have to make it with the candles she'd found in his room.

Waiting proved to be more and more fatiguing with every passing hour. Now that he'd woken once she expected him to do so very soon again, this time staying awake for more than just a few minutes. She retrieved a book just to avoid starting silly conversations with her own self and spent a few hours with reading, stopping only once to eat something. He had an extended library full of rare volumes but even those weren't enough to distract her thoughts.

By the time nighttime came again (according to the clock in the parlor), Christine became restless and it wasn't just that ever-present flutter in her stomach she'd come to be familiar with in the last two days, but it was real dread, rendering her unable to think of anything else than at his current state. He definitely should have woken up by now.

What if he wouldn't wake on the next day, either? Would she be able to find her way up on her own to go to Madame Giry? He was so very afraid of anyone coming down here but…

Mercifully she fell asleep before she could think of the possibility if she did _not_ found her way up to the surface.

Next time she woke it was to the sound of shuffling sheets – his right arm was outstretched across his chest, awkwardly trying to retrieve the mask from the nightstand. He stopped abruptly, however, when he heard her stir and clasped his palm across his face.

"What have you…?" He growled, peering up at her through his outstretched fingers.

"I had to take it off," Christine answered while crossing the small distance between them, and after a moment of hesitation she sat on the edge of the bed and handed him the desired object. "No one was here but me. No one has seen you."

He lied unmoving next to her and for moments he did nothing but stare at her, finally motioning with his eyes only for her to turn away. She complied, looking down at the carpet while he slipped the mask back on his face. She felt embarrassed but had no idea why.

When she was sure he had replaced the mask she turned back to him, asking, "How are you feeling?"

His answer didn't came immediately, instead he was looking somewhere behind her. After a short pause he attempted to sit up in the bed, dismissing her with a look when she moved to help him; when he was finally in sedentary position he leaned back to the headboard, panting heavily.

"Good," he replied curtly. Christine poured him a glass of water and handed it to him; his eyes flew up to hers only for a moment before they fell at the glass again. He lifted it to his lips but lowered his hand again when the glass hit against the mask. Christine turned back to examine the carpet, barely able to suppress squirming next to him. Only when the empty glass made a soft thud on the nightstand did she turn back to him.

"How long have I been asleep?" He asked.

"Two days or so," she answered. Her eyes left his after the last word, and she was waiting for his next question while folding her hands on her lap politely. _She shouldn't be here._ Sadly enough, scants of memories came back to him as he tried to remember what happened, pictures about the trees along the path to the cemetery; then how her hair fall from her shoulder when she stood from the ground to walk towards the _voice_; how the snow crunched under his knees when trying to retrieve his sword and finally the crisp pain as the blade cut and tore at his skin.

The area where that cut must have been was covered with white bandages and he carefully removed them, revealing the injury that was held together by several stitches. The edges of it were only slightly red and the little black pieces of threads were following each other in a neat order.

"So? What do you think?" Christine's frail voice asked.

"Who did it?" He asked and folded the bandages back on their place.

"You told me how to do it and… well, it was me." It seemed that her voice wavered a little and she buried her fingers on the front of her dress. "It didn't get infected or inflamed, did it?"

When he shook his head as an answer his ears picked up the soft sound of her sigh. _Was that really relief?_

"I ran out of… I mean you, or rather we ran out of a few things in the last days," she stuttered, dropping her sight on her hands in her lap again. There was a slight blush on her face, too. "I can purchase some things if you let me know how to make my way up and then back here."

"No. No, I'll escort you back to the surface." _As soon as the room stops swaying around me._

"I can stay for a few more days," she offered timidly, looking into his eyes once again. "If you wish me to, of course," she added a moment later.

"They'll be looking for you, if they're not already," he said, his hand already on the edge of the blanket. Dutifully she stood from the bed while he pulled the blanket from his legs.

"I'm not sure you should move so soon," she spoke again and he had to agree with her – the blanket used to be lighter before and the spinning in his head only increased, making him feel sick. "And I can leave on my own if you tell me how to return," she continued.

"Yes, I'm sure your fiancé would be delighted to know who you spend your days with."

"He's not my fiancé anymore," Christine corrected him and his head snapped up to hers. She shifted her weight on her feet. "We – I broke up the engagement. I think it was me."

The room fell silent and she looked down at her feet, but then taking an audible breath she spoke again. "So would you tell me the way or not?"

"How should I know that you won't bring back anybody with you?" He retorted.

"I could have done that days earlier."

It was true, ha had to admit. He leaned back to the headboard and swallowed, taking another deep breath. _Go. Just go._

"Where did we get here?"He asked. Her lips opened but then closed without saying anything. _Great move to let her know she's the only one who remembers._

"I don't know," she answered finally. "It was you who told me where to go."

"Did we come across the lake?"

"No. We came through my mirror but then there was no lake, just panels in the walls." She shifted on her feet again while clasping her hands in front of her. Another memory came back to him: smears of blood on the back of his hand as she pressed her fingers on his to open the next passageway. _Damn it. Was it not enough?_

So the boat was on the other side of the lake, and he told her the way out regarding that fact. She was listening carefully, cutting into only once to specify how exactly she was supposed to find the mark on the wall where she should turn to the left.

Her hand was already on the handle when he called after her. "You'll find money in the pocket of my coat."


	3. Chapter 3

Thanks a lot for everyone who read, reviewed, favortied or subscribed. You brightened my days.:)

**Ch03**

The door clicked shut and then it was silent again.

The Phantom leaned back his head to rest it against the wall and closed his eyes, taking slow, deep breaths. His head was still spinning and the longer he sat upright the more painful it was to hold still his shoulder. His whole upper arm was throbbing and with every intake of breath the skin stretched on his injury, piercing his chest, his arm, his brain and making it absolutely impossible to think of anything else.

Convincing himself that he indeed could move his right arm without hurting the injured one he took hold of his elbow to support his bandaged shoulder, and the next breath didn't pain so much.

Another breath.

He was still too dizzy to open his eyes. How much blood did he loose exactly?

Another breath.

Forcing his eyes open he looked around – there was no visible mark on the carpet but there was a small stain on the sheets, right where his shoulder had been. Judging from this pitiful weakness, though, it must have been a massive amount he had lost.

Reaching out he grabbed the handle of the pitcher and tried to lift it but it wouldn't move. Damn it. _And she must have seen every minute of this._ Using more strength this time he filled the glass again and lifted it to his mouth when he remembered the mask. Peeling it off he threw the mask on top of the cover and emptied the glass, then hurriedly placed it back on the nightstand before his traitorous hand could drop it.

Candlelight glittered on the white leather and drew a long, distorted shadow under the mask. _I had to take it off. _She should have at least seem bothered by the sight when he woke this morning – if it was morning at all; he couldn't tell without the clock, but he wouldn't risk a route to the parlor. Dizziness refused to cease even after he drank two glasses of water and his legs felt wobbly even as he did nothing but sat on the bed.

On top of everything his lungs couldn't take enough air, it seemed. He had to lean back again, completely drained even from such a mundane task as drinking some water. Two days spent in unconsciousness and it still wasn't enough to regain his strength? It was quite a long gash but still…

He felt the sheets' soft material on his toes but didn't remember taking off his boots.

Pictures of the Parisian streets floated before his eyes but he wasn't sure that he saw them on their route back to the opera house, they could have been old memories as well. He did remember, however, that it was Christine who had taken off his shirt but after that nothing.

He groaned. No doubt she had seen him as he passed out and then who knew for how long without the mask.

How the hell could he allow that fool to cut him so badly?

_He's not my fiancé anymore. _That was interesting indeed.

As was the fact that she'd stayed with him. He _knew_ he hadn't asked her to.

- o -

As soon as Christine left the house she let out a deep sigh. He was… weak. Powerless. Drained.

And it terrified her.

He was the Phantom who ruled the monumental opera house, who demanded every single person's obedience, who knew no mercy if anyone dared to challenge him –

And he was depending only on her compassion.

She didn't like it.

Especially not since she didn't know what to do with such a situation.

All along her way to the city and back to the opera house she tried to put a name to that indefinite feeling, to learn why that lump in her throat refused to cease, why her stomach couldn't settle since her journey to the cemetery but in the end she came up with nothing.

It became only worse when she went to spoke with Madame Giry before she descended to the tunnels again. Madame was very happy to see her again – but was even more angry because of her long absence. During her brief explanation Christine relived every disturbing detail of those hours she had spent trying to save _him _and at some point she felt she couldn't continue it at all. Even she herself was surprised when at Madame's question, whether she was to return to the Phantom, Christine answered yes. And if it was not enough on itself, Madame Giry let her go with a sad smile an encouraging squeeze of her hand on Christine's shoulder.

It was quite a change after her first reaction, when she forbade Christine to leave her room.

Christine arrived back to the house to complete silence, and frantically got rid of the food and her little satchel in the kitchen to rush into his room: he was sleeping soundly. Some of the morning's tension left her in a deep sigh, but the fact that he had on a shirt now filled her heart with worry again. She stepped to him and leaned closer to his face to listen to his breathing, and when she found that he was all right Christine left for the kitchen to prepare him a modest meal.

She only returned to his room when the broth was steaming in a plate, and by that time he was already up.

She stepped in to the sight of him throwing back the blanket, then he slowly turned to his side but stopped in his movements right away, while his back moved with his heavy breathing. Christine noticed how he winced from pain even if he bowed his head and tried to turn away. Some of his hair fell over his eyes and she realized now that it wasn't the same as it had been in the morning: its color was lighter, a very soft brown, almost blond and… most of it was missing on the right side of his skull.

She swallowed.

No doubt it was a continuation of the scars on his face.

He must have been wearing a wig until now.

Meanwhile he grabbed the edge of the bed and leaning on his good arm he tried to lift himself into a sitting position, but after a moment Christine saw how a tremble ran down his spine and his whole body swayed a little. Her stomach knitted painfully and she placed the trail in her hands on the nightstand hurriedly.

"Let me help you."

He didn't protest but it seemed to Christine that he attempted to move away from her hands, and with her help finally he was leaning back against the headboard. His chest was heaving, just like it had been in the morning.

"Are you all right?" She asked, sitting back on her previous place next to him.

"Fine. Don't ask me again," he snapped.

You would lie anyway, she thought. A thin layer of sweat covered his face and he was still breathing faster than it was normal; he was _not_ fine. But from his sharp and pointed look she dared not to press it further.

"I've brought you some food," she said just to brake the silence and barely noticeably, he nodded.

"Go out," he ordered, still not moving. Her heart leapt to her throat at the memory of how the glass hit the mask in the morning and without further prodding, she left.

As soon as the door closed behind her she heard the faint, rhythmic clatter of the spoon against the plate.

- o -

Thankfully she wasn't witness to the disgraceful attempt how he had eaten: the spoon wavered not just once in his hand, and when later he was busy with peeling the orange his fingers were still trembling from that simple fact that he was not lying on his back. She had seen, however, how he couldn't lift himself from the sheets; mortification made his anger boil even now. The Phantom, who couldn't even sit on his own. That damn fool would pay for this once the dizziness would pass already.

After consuming the food that she'd presented him he slid from his seat back to the pillow and fell asleep.

Her soup did wonders, he concluded when he woke again. It was easier to sit up and it seemed that the dizziness had ceased, if only a little. He didn't have to wait so much time before filling the glass on the nightstand and the pitcher was easier to lift than in the morning.

The chair where Christine usually sat was now empty, so taking off the mask he drank the water, then slipped the mask back on place. She'd already seen much more than she should have, and now she knew about the wig, too, he remembered. Had it not been so unbearably hot he wouldn't have taken it off in the morning but now it didn't matter anymore. He saw how her eyes fluttered when looking in his eyes and how she tried not to look at the newly exposed malformation.

Damn it.

If all of those weren't enough, his back was aching from so much time spent in bed, and it just made it even worse that he had to support his injured shoulder all the time. Three days, according to Christine's words. It was time to get up already.

Lifting the blanket he turned slowly in his seat and lowered his feet to the carpet, then slid forward and reached out with his good arm to brace himself on the headboard. First he tried to lift himself but his legs had lost all the strength, it seemed, and so he tightened his grip on the wooden back to pull himself up. He fell back halfway and his shoulder gave a throb from the exertion.

"Let me help you," came Christine's soft voice and he snapped up his head – she was standing in the doorway.

"Don't! Get out!"

"I don't want to you to hurt yourself. Let me help." She touched his arm but he shrugged off her hand, jerking his shoulder again and he swallowed back a hiss.

"Let me be! I can do it myself!" His knuckles turned white from how fiercely he grabbed the headboard but his legs buckled under his weight again. Christine's hands were already on his back.

"I'm here to help you. It really is not…"

"Was it not enough?" He cried and swept her hands away. "Do you think you were meant to see this? That I can't move on my own, or that I'm barely able to stay awake? I can't even eat without feeling exhausted!"

Slowly she pulled back her arms; her chest was moving with her uneven breaths and her nostrils trembled, but she said nothing. After a moment of torturous silence she turned and left. The door closed behind her with a soft click. Suddenly he wished she had slammed it with full force.

It was silent again.

He wanted to take a deep breath but he couldn't. Something was weighting down on his stomach, making it impossible not just to breathe but to move as well. He swallowed with difficulty.

He grabbed the glass from the nightstand and threw it on the floor – it tumbled at his feet without braking and he shook with helpless anger.

_I don't need help._ But he knew it was not true.

Humiliated into nothing for one, single moment, and she was witness to all of it.

She hadn't left, though. Surely she would wait until he fell asleep; which wouldn't take long, considering his current pitiful state. _Then_ he would be truly alone.

_Christine…_

Feeling suddenly ill he leaned back his head and took a deep breath, waiting for it to pass.

Another breath.

Blood was pounding in his ears.

_I can't leave him here. _She certainly was true to her word and he didn't even deserve it.

Reaching out again he tried to pull himself up again, bracing his legs against the edge of the bed this time, and finally he managed to stay on his feet. He decided against letting go of the headboard, though, since dizziness became overwhelming and that strange whizzing sound in his ears blocked every other sound for a long minute. He leaned back to the wall, taking deep and even breaths.

_I'm here to help you._

What a pity that she cared – and he had not.

Letting go of the wall he took a slow step to the door, then another and another. _It used to be closer before._

When finally he opened the door he looked around: the parlor was silent and her door was shut. There was no noise coming from her room but even without it he had no doubt what she was doing. It didn't help the slightest.

He dared not to let go of the wall completely lest he would loose balance; little blurred spots clouded his vision and his knees were shaking under his weight. Damned that stupid pride he had! It was way better to let her see him collapsing in front of her door, really.

After four steps or so one of his knees did buckle and he held onto the wall not to fall to the ground, and stopped for a moment to regain some of his none-existent strength. His stomach quivered more with every minute, and the fact that his head was pounding since he stood did nothing to help that.

When he reached her door at last, he knocked softly.

No answer.

"Christine."

"Go away," he heard her from inside. Resting his forehead against the door he tried to control his breathing, waiting for her to speak again. She didn't.

"Christine, come out." Please, he wanted to add but in the end, he didn't.

He straightened his posture and sighed again, shifting on his feet; she still said nothing. The blurred spots on the edge of his sight came back again, causing him to hold on to the wall more tightly. "I hate to be pitied," he confessed uneasily in the end.

Still silence.

He leaned to the wall but now it did little to help him stay upright and going back to his room was simply impossible. Collapsing in front of her room sounded reasonable enough, except that he wasn't sure he would ever had the power to stand up again.

"Christine. I can't stand any longer," he admitted finally when it became clearly obvious that he wouldn't go from that spot anywhere. Either she comes out now or he would slide down the wall like a rug.

Her door opened immediately, revealing her definitely angry face with the dreaded puffy eyes. "Do you feel better now? I could have spared you the effort to get here," she growled, stepping closer to him and lifting his arm to rest on her shoulder. He wanted to seem strong, not leaning so heavily on her or at least not dragging his feet with every step but apparently it was too much of a wish. He sank to the bed gratefully when they arrived to his sanctuary again.

"I hope we don't have to repeat this every single time you'll need my help." She turned away, taking up the glass from the floor and replacing it with a clean one.

"I don't need help," he repeated obstinately.

"Assistance, then."

"I don't need your pity."

"I don't pity you!" She cried. "If I did, I would have taken you to a doctor and would be sitting at your bed, crying and praying for your recovery all day long." She threw an indignant look at him but then remembered herself and quickly turned away, arranging a few things on the nightstand instead of leaving as soon as possible, as she wished to do. When she could delay it no longer she straightened her posture and started for the door.

Something encircled her wrist and she whirled around.

"Forgive me."

Air disappeared from her lungs completely; and what surprised her more, he was waiting for an answer. His fingers warmed the skin where they were holding her arm; in the first moment she wanted to shake off his grip but the longer he held her the more she welcomed that weak touch. Her throat seemed far too dry when she answered,

"I have."

His hold disappeared from around her wrist and she was already out of the door.

It took her the whole afternoon until she could return to his room again; without having to fear that his eyes would be riveted on her all the time, searching for the signs of whatever he wanted to see.

- o -

"Erik."

She worked for a whole minute to be able to speak again. "You come from Sweden, too?"

"I was born in France; I've chosen my name for myself."

"And the name your family had given you?"

"I don't even remember the name my mother had given me. I don't think she missed me too much when I ran away from her, either."

"I'm…" she started, but his head snapped to her direction in that very same moment. _I don't need your pity. _"Do you play all the instruments in the other room?" She asked hastily not letting out that deep sigh she was holding. It was strange to hear him talk about his mother; he sounded cold and uncaring but was obviously not indifferent. His jaw was set, his words calculated and his voice forced… In that moment Christine truly pitied him, if for nothing else that because his mother hadn't loved him. He was not a murderer back then.

"Of course," came his answer and her thoughts retuned to the present.

"Would you show me how to play them? I've never heard of many of those."

"Which one do you want to hear?"

"I don't know its name," she began, casting a brief glance towards the other room uncertainly. It would be too much of a question to ask him to play it now, though he seemed willing enough.

"Bring it here," he told her simply, his voice once again taking up that calm tone that was so familiar from their lessons before. Christine hurried to comply; it was such a thrilling revelation that he, after all, was still her teacher.

It didn't take her long to find that instrument, and she lifted it with her two hands – it was much lighter than she expected, and she reentered his room shivering with anticipation.

"What is that?" She asked while holding out the stringed instrument to him.

"A zither," he said and cleared enough space for it on the nightstand, then motioned for her to lay it there. "A traditional folk instrument from Eastern Europe."

"Have you brought it with yourself from there?"

"No." His voice once again took up that sharp edge than a minute before and Christine waited restlessly for his next words. His lips were pressed together into a thin line while his eyes were fixed on the instrument, but after a few heavy breaths he still answered. "I've seen one there and then later I've prepared this after that one."

"You've made this?" She asked in awe, drawing one finger on the edge of the instrument, lowering herself to the bed unthinkingly.

"Yes. It's been in years that I've played it." He looked up at her. "Bring me a quill. You'll find on my desk."

Obediently she complied, rummaging through the things on his desk.

"There is only the one that you're writing with," she called back from the parlor.

"That would do it."

When she handed it to him he broke it in two on the edge of the bedside table, then run the upper half of the quill through the strings – it gave a pleasant, chirping sound that was surprisingly rich sounding despite the fact that it was only one instrument that was the source of it.

"It's amazing," she breathed, watching how the mere sound of the instrument made his eyes sparkle.

"It's even more so if there is a group of them played at the same time," he answered, turning the lower half of the quill so that it was pressed across some of the strings. "They even dance at the sound of them," he added and started on a slow, tight rhythm song. It wasn't a too difficult song, she realized, but it had a haunting, sad glory that made it beautiful and unique nonetheless.

He placed one hand across the strings when the song ended.

"Does this song have lyrics as well?" She asked with genuine curiosity.

"A sorrowful one, yes. Most of the songs I've heard there were sad love songs."

"They must have some happy melodies," she insisted, plucking lightly the closest string to her.

"Of course they have." And with that he started on a new song, completely different from the first but similar to it in its harmony; this one was faster and full of half notes, and though it was utterly unknown to her she still felt like dancing from it.

"I assume you liked it," he told her after he finished, referring to her restless feet on the floor and she smiled.

"Yes, I wish you would show me other songs as well." Her voice trailed off when saw him lightly taking hold of his injured shoulder.

"Later," he said and lifted the blanket, placing his feet on the floor.

"What do you want to do?" Christine asked him while stepping to his side and holding out her arm for him to take.

"Don't make me say it," he answered, rising to his feet with Christine's help, then started for the bathroom. She stopped short in front of the door, however.

"I, uhm… I'll be right outside of the other door," she stuttered and left the room immediately.

Though she was now separated from him by two doors, she began humming softly to herself to… well, not to suspect or hear, or even admitting of knowing about anything. She only ventured to stop crooning when she heard the door of his bathroom opening and then closing again and she peeked into the room, finding that he, indeed, was there. Ignoring his indignant stare she stepped to him and walked him to his bed.

"I take it back to its place then," she said, motioning for the zither on the nightstand.

"You can leave it there," he stopped her tiredly, leaning against the wall for support.

In no time he was asleep again, forgetting to order her out of the room this time.

Christine watched him with that still unnamed, trembling feeling inside of her.


	4. Chapter 4

Thank you so much for all of those wonderful people who favorited or subscribed for this story and to the others; I'm so glad you're still here.:)

**Ch04**

She hadn't left as he had expected.

It felt good.

Even if it meant she changed the bandages on the next day for him.

Most of the days she had spent with him and only once or twice did he caught a glimpse of sadness in her eyes. She never talked about the boy. She didn't show any intention to return aboveground, either.

It could have been just pity, after all. But there was the fact that she had broken up her engagement – presumably quite hastily, and likely in that short time he had no memories of… He threw back the covers angrily. _Enough of this. _It would have been easier not to hope, though, had she not been so… kind… to him; and as insane as the thought sounded it didn't alter her definitely amiable behavior. Sometimes it was difficult to convince himself that she only pretended to be happy.

The door opened and Christine came in, her skirts following her in an elegant half-circle, and she smoothed them with a small smile.

It was meant only for him – and again, he didn't know where to look.

"Running water is the most amazing thing I've ever seen," Christine exclaimed cheerfully, uncaring of his momentary bewilderment. From the adjoining bathroom the soft babble of water in the tub seeped into the room, giving it to an almost cozy mood. When she placed his slippers next to his bed, then left the room again to stop the flow of the water Erik almost felt it familiar to have her there. She didn't comment his wish – or rather command, he admitted to himself – to have a bath and it make things a lot easier.

"Your bathroom is just the same like this one," he told her when she returned.

"Oh, I know it. I think I like it more than the bedroom," she answered with another smile and swept the used matches into her palm.

At times like this it was as if she was enjoying this. She was arranging everything, straightening this, packing away that – but the most enthralling thing was that unthinking way she'd done all of those. And the sparkle in her eyes. It was the most convincing thing above all.

Finally there was something to do, Christine thought. Preparing his bath stirred her diligence and now she couldn't stop: if she folded her blanket on the arm of the chair she couldn't let the chair stand in that careless way anymore. Then the tray couldn't stay on his nightstand, either, and she had to replace the glass with a clean one, too. And he would need fresh clothes, and towels, and…

She stepped to his wardrobe and opened the doors. "Better if I…" The words froze on her lips. _Undergarments._ Until she saw only his shirts she could pretend that she wasn't moved by the sight but to her misfortune his underwear was on the very same shelf.

Her ears began to burn.

"I can take out my clothes for myself," she heard his feeble voice from behind and the shuffle of sheets. _What to do? What to do?_ Her heart hammered in her throat. He would approach her soon if she didn't do something right away.

There was some more rustling behind her.

Pulling out the first shirt and that perplexing item along with a pair of trousers she rushed back to him; he yanked the pile from her hands with narrow eyes.

While she escorted him to the bathroom she thought his face had some more color than usual but she couldn't tell it for sure.

I like to be with him, she thought as she was walking back to her room, feeling mortified from the thought.

_He was a murderer._

If the gossips were right, Joseph Buquet wasn't the first victim to his wrath, but when she was with him he was just a man, who – when he thought she didn't see it – watched her for long minutes with a look that made her heart beat with a painful intensity. He ruled the opera house by threatening anyone to obey his wishes, blackmailed the managers, killed, if he met with disobedience – and was able to get up from bed only to come after her. It shouldn't have made her feel flattered – but it did.

_It wasn't meant to be like this._

The next day Christine woke to the faint sound of the piano; the slow, plaintive melody filtered through the walls, urging her to dress hastily and leave the room earlier than usual.

Erik was sitting at the piano, fully dressed, which was quite a strange sight since in the last few days Christine only saw him in shirt and trousers and mostly sitting in his bed; but now he was wearing again his impeccable attire – his stubble also missing, she noted sadly – and his hair was swept back as it was on the night she first met him. _It's not real._ She swallowed. _Nothing is real about him._

Except music.

Every time he played it brought back the memories of the hours she had spent with him; when he was only a spirit, a friend from the shadows, a voice, someone who shared her dreams to be a leading soprano. Beautiful days that those had been. Tears began to clench her throat. _They're over._ She'd been more than willing to loose herself in a dream, in a fake reality she was so desperate to believe in; how simple it was to believe in a fantasy rather than to accept that she had nothing to hope for!

Now he was not just a voice any longer. And he was farther from being an angel than anyone else she had ever known. It was not fair.

"It's been in my head for days," he said and Christine realized that the song had ended. He was staring at the keys.

"Have you noted it down?" she asked from the doorway but feeling thousands of miles away from him.

"No," came his silent reply.

"But will you?"

"Maybe," he answered hesitantly, running along his fingers on the keys without pressing any.

"I wish you would," she said abruptly, taking a hesitant step towards him. "I'd like to hear it again."

He didn't answer immediately. "Then I will," he concluded and slowly turned on the bench, taking in the sight of her; she could barely stop herself from shifting on her feet.

"I have to go shopping again today," she told him just to brake that awkward feeling.

"Will you find your way up?"

"Yes."

"Good," he nodded and turned back to the keys without another word.

He was still playing when later she left for aboveground; the slow and bitter notes were hanging beside her steps on her journey.

- o -

Her return wasn't much better, either. After her visit in the nearest shop she had been found by Madame Giry, who worriedly insisted upon Christine's immanent return to rehearsals – rumors had already flew up from her supposed whereabouts but what was worse, Monsieur Reyer was strangely anxious about her carrier. The managers – and especially M. Firmin – expressed his reservations about the chorus girl who disappeared every now and then, though he still feared the Opera Ghost's wrath and – Madame said – he was secretly grateful for the repeated popularity of the opera house.

It was very quiet on the way down, only the occasional swish of the bag broke the silence of the tunnels. Christine sighed with relief when she stepped into the house again and heard Erik bustling about – wherever he was.

"I'm back," she addressed him and he emerged from his room.

"I hoped you didn't get lost in the tunnels," he answered, taking a quill from the bottle of ink on his desk and putting it aside into its holder, then he folded a paper and placed it on the top of a pile.

"No; I'm quite familiar with this route."

His only answer was a silent nod. Christine wrung her hands together and folded them in the front of her dress absently.

"Erik, I have to go back tomorrow to be present on the rehearsals," she revealed finally; his back stiffened at her words but he didn't turn yet. "I can't spend any more time with my aunt since I don't have any."

"Who told them where are you staying?"

"Madame Giry…"

"Of course she would lie for you," he murmured as if to himself.

"I think she did it for both of us," Christine ventured, then stopped for a moment. "She knows a lot about you, doesn't she?"

"She knows _something_," he growled dismissively. What could be so horrible that she couldn't know of she had no idea. She had already known what happened to Joseph Buquet and suspected that it wasn't the first time he had done it… What could be worse than murder? Christine looked at him: his eyes were riveted on some book in his hand, his shoulders pulled back stiffly – surely he wouldn't tell her, even if she asked, so she left for the kitchen to tuck away the necessities she had just bought.

It didn't last longer then ten minutes, and when she entered the room again Erik stepped to her, holding out a dark brown case. "Take this." He handed her the object, barely casting a look at her and pulling back his hand abruptly. "You said you'd like to have it," he added softly.

"Thank you," she answered unthinkingly. When she opened the case she found that there were music sheets in it, and on the first page it read: _My inspiration_. Christine had to flip through the pages to distract her thoughts from the lump in her throat. He was a murderer and… he loved her, she knew he did. And she… she knew she shouldn't feel so moved by that, shouldn't enjoy his company at all.

She drew in a shaky breath.

The music was not too long, a few pages only, but it was covered with hundreds of black notes. On the last page, just under the last line there were a few scribbled letters that she deciphered as his name. _Erik._

The case wavered a little in her hands.

"Am I really… your inspiration?" She whispered dumbly, achieving only a half-success when trying to cover how moved she was.

"Always," he answered. His eyes were riveted on the black little notes on the white paper, skipping to her eyes only until he spoke, but that brief look stole her breath away.

"Thank you," she said again, closing the cover over the sheets. For a pretty long minute she was pressing the whole thing tightly in her hands, without any word. "Would you play it for me some time?" She asked finally.

He turned from her and walked to the hearth, only to turn back to her a moment later. "If you're willing to return, yes."

"I'll come back after rehearsals if it's well with you."

"Good," he concluded stiffly and disappeared from the room.

- o -

True to her word, Christine returned to his domain right after rehearsals ended and had eaten in his kitchen, but it was not the same as it had been only a day ago. It began when she entered the house and saw her slippers next to the door, on the exact same spot where she had left them the last time, and ever since then there was that hidden anticipation mixed with fear that she wasn't able to brush off of her mood.

When after hours it became truly unbearable she walked to the door and furiously changed into the slippers.

He'd went to sleep after her arrival and had been asleep since then, just like in the days she'd been staying there. The house was just as silent, apart from the soft ticking of the parlor's clock.

Nothing changed and yet she felt she had to move, somewhere, to hurry, to do something, anything – to escape. It felt good to be with him and it shouldn't have been so. She'd been waiting all day to return and now that she was there she wanted to leave before he woke. She took extra care not to raise him with the dishes but then when he didn't come out of his room she went to see if he had woken yet. It was rather confusing.

In the end she took refuge in looking through his unique instruments, lightly touching one or two experimentally, just to learn how they sounded. Her presence in his home was completely unfounded and probably unnecessary, especially while he was asleep, but if she wasn't there he would have been alone.

And she would have been without him, too.

"Do you want to play?"

Christine nearly jumped in her seat when she heard his voice behind her, and then turned around with still racing heart. "I didn't mean to wake you," she said, finally succeeding in catching her breath.

"You didn't," he corrected shortly and walked to his desk, where he took the jacket from the back of his chair and put it on with minor fumbling, not casting a single look towards her. After a short pause he started to shuffle through papers and notes, using only his good arm while resting the other awkwardly on the tabletop.

"Wouldn't it be better to sling your arm if you're walking about?" she offered; he threw a short glance at her and turned away again, thrusting his hand in his pocket.

"There's no need for that."

She turned back to that strange stringed instrument she had been examining a few minutes ago as if he could read her mind and figure out she didn't wish to spend her afternoon without his presence. Deep inside she knew he yearned to hear it and that was exactly why she didn't want to let him know it. He would mistake it for something completely different…

…and maybe he wouldn't be mistaken at all. No. She wouldn't speak a word about that.

Every thought was forgotten, though, when she heard a short hiss of pain and she whirled around – he was clutching at his injured shoulder with his good hand, breathing through clenched teeth while bracing himself against the table. Swallowing with difficulty she walked to him but dared to do nothing else.

"Stop staring," he growled when her concerned look lasted longer than it was to his liking.

"I'm not staring," she protested vaguely, and when a tremor shook his hunched frame, she pushed him down on the chair. "What should I do?" Her voice wavered against her will.

"Nothing. Leave me alone," he grunted, letting out an uneven breath. Christine's stomach gave an uncomfortable quiver that soon transformed into a well-defined shaking.

On wobbly legs she turned and left for the kitchen though she was not entirely sure what she was looking for. She hadn't given him anything for the pain even when she stitched him and now the thought sent a shiver down on her spine. _Think._

Flinging the first cupboard open she rummaged through its content, until on the second shelf she finally found a bottle of – she turned it to read the note on it – cognac. Hopefully this would do it; it certainly was to her help in every month.

Quickly she poured some of it in a glass and rushed back to the parlor. He was sitting in the same position as she'd left him.

"Here." The glass clattered softly on the table. He didn't reach for it immediately but when he did she noticed the soft waver in his hand.

"What is it?" He asked, his voice once again weak and detached. _He'll be fine._ But her stomach was still knotted.

"Cognac. I found it in the kitchen."

"I never drink," he said, not lifting the glass from the table.

"I know; it was I who opened the bottle. Now drink it." She herself was surprised from her insistent tone and he must have felt the same, for lifting the glass he gulped the content of it in one sip, then handed it back to her. He didn't look up until her fingers brushed his while taking back the object, and even then it didn't last longer than a glance. She pulled back her hand after lingering there long enough to feel the heat on his fingertips, then left the room hastily.

Her lips tingled in his presence and it wasn't the first time she felt so.

- o -

That drink really did help but even minutes after it he didn't feel like moving from the chair.

The soft rustle of her dress signaled that she had come back but otherwise she said nothing, and the silence in the room became cumbersome, even for him. The memory of her fingers' brush was burning against his skin, then there was that hesitancy that she'd pulled back with…

A cold wave run down his spine and finally standing from his seat Erik walked slowly to the hearth, resting his arms on the mantel but pulling back abruptly when the cut on his shoulder protested with a piercing throb to the simplest movement. The orange flames danced in front of him, their heat warming his clothes to an almost uncomfortable degree and he realized it wasn't him who had lit the fire. She must have mastered the art of it in the last few days.

"Why did you come back?" He asked without turning, staring into the blazing flames.

"I've been here a lot lately," she said hesitantly, and judging from the sounds coming from behind, she squirmed on her seat.

"That's not what I asked of you. Why are you here?"

"You needed… I mean, I thought you could use some help," she stuttered, her voice tapering off uncertainly on the last word as if she wanted to continue but thought it unnecessary.

"I told you I don't want your pity," he snapped, still facing the hearth but his eyes didn't see the dancing flames anymore. The only picture he saw was Christine sitting next to his bed, looking genuinely relived upon his waking for the first time – he even felt her touch on his arm that she had given him so many times during this last week while helping him.

"That's not pity," she said softly and slowly Christine's form appeared in his vision but he didn't look up at her. For a short while she stood beside him wordlessly, apprehension hanging thickly in the air; in the end her hand lifted uncertainly and had he not snapped at her earlier she would have touched his arm, he was sure of it.

Her hand fell back to her side limply.

"You're still afraid of me, aren't you?" He mused, staring adamantly into the constantly changing flames in front of them.

Her answer didn't come immediately.

"No."

"It's just my horrible face that haunts your days and nights," he grunted and she shuddered.

"I've been scared to death," she began, whispering. "I shouldn't have told him so much but he was there after I heard the screams and saw the… stage," she swallowed audibly before continuing. "After what happened only a day ago I wanted nothing more than to be away from you. I didn't want to care about what you've said; that you…"

Suddenly a sob was torn from her throat and he turned sooner than he could have stopped in his movements. She was practically shaking. "I didn't mean to… I wouldn't have…" A tear tumbled on her cheek and she wiped it away with the pads of her fingers. Her eyes fluttered when looking up to his face and she struggled to look him in the eyes; whether it was the upsetting memory or something else he couldn't tell. "Forgive me. Forgive me for not caring," she breathed and the room became unbearably hot and he wanted nothing more than to disappear from it. He could barely endure looking into her eyes, let alone being faced with those memories he had no desire to remember at all.

"Forgive me," she whimpered again and he felt the soft skin of her palm around his fingertips, then she was gone.

Her choked cries didn't subside even when she was already in her room, though it sounded muffled, as if coming from behind a pillow, and it just made them far more condemning.

He left the parlor as well when he could take no more.

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><p>The music that Erik is playing was inspired by ALW's Nothing Like You've Ever Known, sung by the brilliant Michael Crawford.<p> 


	5. Chapter 5

Again, thanks so much for everyone who favorited my story, and thank you for your wonderful reviews as well, you guys are the best! And of course, thanks for every reader who's still here. Writing wouldn't be so much fun without you.

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><p>"No, no, no! From the beginning of act two!"<p>

Christine let out a secret, exasperated sigh and hurried back to the left. Monsieur Reyer had been doing the same from nine in the morning, ever since rehearsals had begun. Nothing could be good enough, nothing was as it should have been, and he said no one would leave the auditorium until at least one scene would be perfectly finished. Christine couldn't decide whether it was his fear of the Phantom or his perfectionist nature that caused this unusual distress.

Furtively she rubbed her eyes – they were still burning, completely regardless of that good amount of frigid water she had washed them with in the morning.

_He didn't say anything._ Had he been simply angry or would have raged at her it would have been still easier to accept than that silence.

_He wasn't angry._

The only person whom he trusted betrayed him and he didn't punish her, didn't challenge her… but his eyes spoke volumes and now it was useless that she wished she couldn't read them. _Forgive me._

"How many times do I have to say not to interrupt…"

Monsieur Reyer's voice startled Christine out of her wordless remorse and she turned to find a very confident-looking someone walking in from the other side of the stage.

It was _him_.

In the first moment every person in the room was stunned to silence and she drew in a shaky breath. _You shouldn't be up._

He moved with all of the gracefulness of an untouchable apparition and passed without a glance beside the now whispering cast members until he reached the center and stopped only a few feet away from where she was standing. His eyes met with hers in a meaningful look and her stomach trembled when she deciphered the meaning of it. _Not a word._

She was meant to play his accessory. A chill tickled the back of her head and ran down her spine. He expected her to conspire in whatever his plan was and she took it as an honor. It was certainly not right.

"I'm sure that Mademoiselle Daae wouldn't mind a few minor changes in the script," Erik said to Monsieur Reyer who turned to Christine briefly, then back to the Phantom again, who meanwhile rearranged the front of the set, leaving only the symbolical fire in the center. Had she not seen him yesterday she wouldn't believe how weak he was still, seeing his current performance. He could barely stand on his own and now this…

"Excuse me, Monsieur," the conductor began and his voice wavered a little. It never wavered before. "Who are you to make changes on a finished manuscript?"

"The composer," Erik answered nonchalantly and stepped to Christine, handing her a few sheets.

"Christine, would you?" He asked and her eyes flew up to his. He dropped his gaze immediately, though, and pulled back his hand, turning away hastily as the indignant gasp of the conductor reached them. After taking a few steps he looked back at her again, his eyes quivering for the briefest moment when doing so.

"Monsieur Reyer." Came his strict voice from the center of the stage; once again taking up the Phantom's confident attitude and she managed not to give away any sign of her astonishment. He was handling two different roles simultaneously depending on who he was speaking to, and she was supposed to be the actress! And when it occurred to her how she expected him to act after what happened last evening blood started to pound in her temples savagely.

"The orchestra will need the music as well if you want them to accompany the actors," the conductor protested, picking up the baton from its rest grudgingly and throwing a short, eloquent look at her and she had to take a deep sigh. _He knows it._

"Music is the same as it was," Erik continued and whirled around to face her from the other end of the stage, his cape following his movement with a soft swish. "Other changes in the manuscript will be sent to you by tomorrow."

Monsieur Reyer's throat moved slowly with a swallow, that – Christine was sure – was the only thing what kept him from breaking the baton; the thin piece of wood was already bent to a dangerous angle. He only broke it once so far, when Carlotta refused to show up on a dress rehearsal on the very day of the performance.

"Act three, second scene, bar hundred and sixty," Erik instructed, motioning with his outstretched arm towards the orchestra without caring as much as to look at them. Music started at his command nonetheless and he approached her with only a few long strides; but when in the end he reached for her hand to pull her to the right place in the scene, he took her wrist instead. His eyes still avoided her.

When it came to Don Juan's cue, though, his eyes lingered on her face long enough to catch her sight finally and he also began to sing – it took him only a moment of time to fall into the role of the confident seducer, and though she had noted only a minute ago how easy it was for him to pick up a new personality, she was enthralled nonetheless. He didn't hold back from then on. He circled around her like she was his true victim, moved, as if his movements had been brought to perfection by countless affairs, all the while singing in that haunting, flawless voice…

She knew he was still not fully recovered from his injury, and yet his voice sounded as powerful as it always had been: intimidating, thrilling, dangerous; even if she noticed how he used his _right_ arm to pull her closer. She remembered not to lean on his left shoulder when she allowed him to hold her, but sadly enough he let her go sooner than she could have had a moment to detect what effect his touch was having on her.

And on top of it she was to sing her lines now, from a sheet whose lines blurred before her vision.

Entwining…

Her voice wavered as she stifled the urge to stop entirely. The whole cast was present and regarded her performance with full attention because of the Phantom, and she had not just to sing but to play convincingly as well, even such scandalous thoughts.

The most scandalous was, though, that she was only bothered by the crowd and not the thoughts themselves. Was it really just his voice that pulled her to him?

_He's a murderer._

No, nothing changed. That strange feeling remained, completely intact of such mundane thoughts as his crimes. A fine tremor shook her frame.

As music reached the refrain again she laid the sheets on top of an amphora in the sets before starting to ascend on the steps at his motioned request. He was mimicking her movements and when they reached the top of the stairs her heart gave an extra beat: his eyes burned from the same emotions that she herself felt. Her heartbeat increased as he approached her and she let out a deep sigh when finally he touched her and pulled close to his body.

His heaving chest pressed against her back and she breathed with him while music was swirling around them. The notes burned her from the inside and made her shiver at the same time, and for a moment it was only _him_ who kept her upright. His palms drew slow paths on her upper arms; at some point their movement stopped and was replaced with hot waves of air against her throat, and she waited.

Music ended but his breath was tormenting her skin still – and disappeared without the awaited contact. She didn't realize it was so cold on stage before.

_He's been playing himself all along._

"I expect it to be performed just the same," Erik ordered and jumped from the set without another word to her, but Christine didn't see him landing on the floor. She braced herself on the balustrade as the sounds of indignation and anger of the cast members rose around her.

"Mademoiselle, are you all right?" Christine heard Monsieur Reyer's concerned voice from below.

"I… I need a break," she managed to say and started to descend on the stairs.

"Go with her," the conductor instructed one of the dancing girls but Christine hurried to answer,

"No. No, thank you. I'll be back in a minute."

As soon as she left the peering eyes of the cast she leaned against the wall for some feigned support.

- o -

End of the rehearsals couldn't come fast enough.

Eventually Monsieur Reyer let go the cast at three in the afternoon since no one could work without their lunch anymore, but even that concession was achieved with difficulty. Christine rushed to her room, and ignoring her constantly rumbling stomach she opened the mirror, then descended into the dark tunnels.

It didn't took her long to get to his house, and she felt a familiar settle of nerves as she beheld the entrance of it. When she stepped in her nostrils picked up the pleasant scent of his home; that almost undetectable fragrance of fire, the wooden furniture and _him_ that she came to like a lot lately.

She found him sitting in front of the hearth and now considerably more composed she shrugged off her coat and hung it next to the door. When she turned back, he was already rising from his chair, not much more gracefully than yesterday. What became of his majestic movements from this morning?

"I'm fine," he assured her and Christine realized she had watched him longer again than it was allowed.

"You've changed the duet," she said breathlessly, struggling to calm her racing heart.

He cast a brief side look at her instead of an answer, then walked to his desk and began to shuffle through some papers as if the question didn't matter at all to him. There was some hesitation in his movements before he spoke again, too. "It's more fitting now. The first version of it left her a passive victim to his seduction but now she's part of the treat. It's more of a triumph than seducing and leaving her without the divine punishment."

"But now it is more about her than him, and he was supposed to be the main character."

"So it is." He looked up from the papers. "You don't like it?"

"I do. There are so many helpless heroines on stage that it would be a relief to play this Aminta." She fell silent for a moment but when she attempted to look him in the eyes he turned back to the papers. She took a breath. "Erik, I'm sorry."

The papers were tossed on the table carelessly. "Do you wish to eat something?" He asked, not waiting for her answer but starting for the kitchen already. It seemed that the changing of the script was his twisted way to tell her he had forgiven her, and at the same time all that he was willing to reveal of it.

- o -

"Of course." Christine placed the book in her hands on the arm of the couch and stood, walking to where he was standing. His voice was meant to sound emotionless, obviously, but as she approached him he refused to look her in the eyes. Truth be told, Christine wasn't looking forward the forthcoming act, either; taking out the stitches from his shoulder wasn't much better than putting them there.

"Sit down," she said as if she was twice as sure of her abilities as she was in reality. "And… I need you to remove your shirt," she added, then left for the box on his nightstand. By the time she had returned he had already hung the shirt on the back of the chair, and she placed the box on the table, hoping to draw courage from the meticulous way she had straightened it.

"I'll be back in a minute. Until then take out what will be needed for it," she asked and disappeared, then entered the room again when she considered her hands clean enough to perform another unwanted surgery.

It wouldn't be that bad this time, though. There was no blood and he was fully conscious, and probably the latter was what mattered the most. She entered the room again somehow calmed.

Sharp scissors, tweezers, a good amount of gauze and that dreaded antiseptic in the green bottle was already prepared on the table and a chill run down her spine.

_He's fine now._

Steeling herself with a determined sigh she stepped to his side; he wasn't looking at her but rather somewhere behind her, examining the wall with blind eyes. The cut on his shoulder had the angry red color like before but it looked as if it was healing already, assuming from that little Christine knew about injuries. The little black lines stood out from his skin as if there wasn't enough space for them to stay in his body, and when she swept a light touch through the gash she felt its stiff texture and the slightly warmer skin around it. But it wasn't swollen like it had been a week ago.

"Does it still hurt?" She asked, in that moment regardless how he hated to talk about his temporal disability.

"Yes."

"But it's... normal, isn't it? It didn't get infected, did it?" She asked, pulling back her hand uncertainly.

"No. It's perfectly usual, I assure you." From his tone Christine couldn't decide if he was mocking her, but when she looked at his still averted eyes and face, it became quite obvious that he was serious. Had she not known better she would have said he was moved by her inquiry.

"Can I give you something to ease the pain?"

"No need for that. It will pass with time."

"Tell me if you changed your mind," she offered, however unlikely it was that he would ever ask such a thing from her. More likely he would stumble through the house alone first than to ask her further assistance. "What should I do now?"

"Take the scissors and cut every stitch – right next to the knots," he added when she lifted trembling hands to the first piece of thread, "and pull it out with the tweezers."

Her throat moved as she swallowed uneasily, then she fitted the tips of the scissor under the first stitch. The little piece of thread tensed his skin before she cut it out. His eyes followed how she reached for the tweezers, then there was the almost undetectable pain as she pulled out the first piece of thread – and that was when he heard her moan helplessly.

"It's bleeding," she choked, the tweezers wavering between her fingers.

He turned his head to the side to examine the gash. "It's nothing."

"But…"

"Wipe it with the antiseptic," he ordered. This whole ridiculous ordeal was meant to end as soon as possible, with as little help from her as possible – and had he reached the stitches with the scissors on his own he wouldn't have even mentioned it to her anymore. She had already seen more than enough.

After a loud intake of breath Christine finally applied the fizzling liquid on his skin – he tensed beneath her ministration but gave no sound at all. The thought was very confusing, but Christine felt respect for him rising in her because of it.

"Shouldn't I stop? Maybe it would be better to continue a few days later," she said, placing the little piece of cloth on the table.

"No. It has to be done now," he answered and glanced up at her; she nodded obediently before reaching for the scissors again, continuing the highly disturbing task.

From then on she worked very slowly and very carefully, and her lips were pressed into a thin line. The most confusing thing was, though, that she didn't seem disgusted or repulsed by any means, but then what was that distant look in her eyes he had no idea. Nor why her face twitched at every sign of his supposed discomfort, like when she didn't manage to pull out a little piece of thread at the first try.

When she finished, she wiped the whole area again with the hated liquid and then wrapped some bandages on it, securing it neatly.

"It's done," she addressed him in a shaky voice, tucking away the different objects back into the box. She got no answer but saw from the corner of her eyes that he stood and put on his shirt, straightening his attire to its usual state. The room was silent except the rustle of his clothes and Christine took refuge in occupying herself with unfolding the cover and smoothing out the wrinkles. In her mind she expected him to say something, maybe to thank her – but she chastised herself for that thought immediately; that was not the reason why she had helped him. Before she could leave the room and escape that awkward silence she felt fingers' soft touch on her wrist and whirled around.

"Thank you... for saving my life." His eyes were riveted on hers and Christine struggled not to look away while a blush started to rise in her cheeks. "I wish I'd ever done anything to deserve it."

She gave no answer.

She was standing still, staring at him; her lips opened but no sound came out. Her eyes fell to where he was clutching at her arm, but before he could let go of it dispiritedly he felt the soft breeze of her scent against his face, then right after her whole body pressing against his. Of all the possible outcomes of his confession he hadn't thought of this, and it took him moments to realize he was allowed to hold her back. A slight tremor run through her at his touch and she snuggled up further against him.

If she was to leave in the end it was the cruelest thing to let him know what he would be missing.

In a twisted way, it still felt marvelous.


	6. Chapter 6

Thank you so much for everyone, as always, for reviewing, favoriting or subscribing. Sorry it had taken me so long to finish this story but I think it's much better now than in the beginning. Thank you so much for your patience and support, it means me so much to know there are so many of you out there, following my stories. I hope you'd like this last chapter as well.

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><p>It was that kind of day when everything was doomed to go wrong. The cast was to rehearse a scene where Christine had two lines altogether but Monsieur Reyer insisted upon her presence with the strictest terms; Piangi was missing since Carlotta forbade him to show up in her absence and Monsieur Reyer took out all of his frustrations about that on Christine, ordering her to repeat her two lines with the most ridiculous reasons.<p>

Oh, and the whole cast was whispering about her relationship with the Phantom, throwing meaningful glances at her in every single minute. Explaining them how she had no idea what led them to that conclusion did absolutely nothing to stop the giggles.

She sighed and walked back to her place for the twentieth time in that hour.

They had a particularly awful evening yesterday. After her enthusiastic response things were not as they had been before. It was her who pulled back first and for a good five minutes neither of them spoke a word, nor did they venture even a glance at the other. It was quite disturbing. She spent the rest of the evening with talking about the most insignificant things just to avoid that horrid silence, then left way earlier than she had originally planned. They hadn't met since then.

_This can't be true._

She walked back to the left to start her cue again. _There are no more ways to sing those two lines any different._

During the second line of her recitativo the left door of the auditorium opened and two men entered in uniforms: gendarmes. Monsieur Reyer must have also noticed the noise as well as the fidgeting for he turned around angrily – and in the next moment he turned back to the cast as if nothing had happened.

He _never_ let anybody get away without punishment for interrupting rehearsals and Christine's heart leapt to her throat, making it almost impossible to finish her line. It wasn't quite unusual to see gendarmes in the opera house; they appeared from time to time in search of some bracelet or a pocket watch but never in the auditorium. She shuddered.

Until two in the afternoon they didn't get any rest and Christine left the auditorium completely drained from exhaustion, then started for her dressing room. On the hallways here and there appeared other gendarmes, rushing and hurrying away while others were guarding doors and entrances.

The skin tingled on her back. It was very cold outside of the stage.

Pushing her door slowly ajar Christine stepped into her dressing room, and hardly later then her door clicked shut she let out a startled squeak. A man was standing right in front of her – another gendarme. She could barely swallow her heart which was now hammering in her throat.

"What are you doing here?" She whispered, still trying to catch her breath.

"I've been ordered to keep your room guarded," the man answered formally, straightening his posture as he stood beside her mirror.

"Inside?!"

"Yes, mademoiselle."

"Why?"

"I've been told you've been…" The man stopped as if searching for the right word and the tremors that ran down her spine only increased. "…abducted from this very place," the man finished uneasily.

"Oh." That was all she managed to say before her voice broke uselessly; it couldn't be true that they were here because of _him_. Why now? He hadn't done anything now! "So…"

"It wouldn't take long to find him, mademoiselle. And the building is full of gendarmes; you have nothing to fear of."

"Uh-hm." Air disappeared around her and the room turned around her head. How long exactly had they been here? They couldn't get down to the catacombs, could they? She got the edge of the vanity before her knees gave away from beneath her. "So you're just going to stay here?" she asked at last. "In my _dressing _room." If he had any decency towards her female morals it didn't resurface even at her pointed question. _Worst day of this year so far, indeed._

"I'm afraid so; I'm sorry, mademoiselle. And it is my duty to inform you that my superior is waiting for you on the first floor," the man said, glancing at her hand that was holding onto the vanity. She drew it back but likely he had already seen her white knuckles. _Focus._

"What have I done?" She said and took a step back, leaning her back to the door to keep herself from falling and folded her hands into the front of her dress to hide their violent shaking.

"It's nothing but part of the formalities, I assure you; they want merely to know if you could be at their help with anything."

She felt herself nodding at the man's words, and then asked numbly, "When should I meet them?"

"Immediately, if you can."

She nodded again and turned out of her room heading for the first floor, all the while clinging to anything she could reach.

- o -

_It doesn't matter to me. I love you._

_Surely it would help to daydream instead of actually asking her._

The ring twirled between his fingers before the Phantom dropped it back to his pocket. Maybe it would be easier to propose but until he knew her answer for sure he could hope otherwise.

The clock gave a soft ring on the mantel. _Half past two._ _Usually she comes at three._ Would she come today as well he had no idea. She'd been coming back every day since she returned to rehearsals – but after yesterday he wasn't sure at all she would show up. She had left earlier than usual and she was babbling all along, as if she tried to avoid something…

Reaching into his pocket he touched the ring again.

Probably she knew it – and cared nothing about it, had no desire to hear it, and left before he could gain enough courage to even consider proposing her right then and there.

_If I did pity you I would have taken you to a doctor and would be sitting at your bed, crying and praying for your recovery all day long._

So why was she coming back every day if not because of pity? Or fear? She said she didn't fear him anymore.

With a sigh he dropped the ring in his pocket; it was the same conversation he had every single day. If anything, this would surely drive him mad in the end.

The sound of hurried footsteps broke the silence in the room as someone was nearing the house; there was no hesitation in those steps but they were heading confidently towards the front door… No doubt it was Christine. In the next moment the door opened and indeed, Christine stepped in, wheezing heavily.

"The opera house is full of gendarmes," she breathed, closing the door and leaning against it for support.

"I know," he replied. For a few moments she stayed there, trying to catch her breath, but then let go of the door and came closer to him. Her hair was disheveled from her exertion, flying around her face in small tendrils… She'd never been more beautiful.

It hurt… to know she deserved a man worthy of such a remarkable girl. And that she _would_ chose such a man – and it wouldn't be _him_.

"All of them are after you," she said and her sight moved around the room as if searching for any intruders; when she reached up to adjust her hair her fingers were faltering in their motion. The fact that dozens of gendarmes were looking for him didn't move him as much as knowing it actually terrified her. His heart gave that strange leap again and he had to take a deep breath. _Stop this._

"They come back from time to time," he answered her but she didn't seem calmed the slightest. She was still staring at him with wide eyes. "Don't care about them."

"I have never seen so much lurking around before."

"They won't find anything. They never do."

"There is one even in my room…"

"What?" He didn't realize he approached her until he was only one step away from her. She was looking up at him with an emotion he didn't wish to identify. "What does it do there?"

"He told me he was ordered to guard my room since my life is in constant danger. And I was asked whether I could say anything of your whereabouts."

"And could you?"

She swallowed before speaking again and the pounding in his ears increased until it blocked every other thought from his mind. "I told them I know nothing about it. I won't be assistant to… help them." Her voice broke in mid-sentence and her lips quivered, but instead of finding her eyes moist with tears he only saw her cheeks becoming flushed red.

Oh, and she was practically shaking in front of him.

"And then you came down here." His voice remained calm – even if it sounded forced – but inside he was devastated. _No, she can't…_

"Yes," she whispered.

"You foolish girl! If any of them followed you here you would stand beside me on that very scaffold!" One hand reached up to run unsteady fingers through his hair and even that sharp pain in his shoulder didn't stop the motion. _No, she can't._ His life didn't matter, it never really did. But hers… She wasn't meant to suffer because of him. She shouldn't have lied to those gendarmes because of him!

Somewhere in the back of his mind he heard how she protested, that she made sure that no one had followed her but it didn't really matter now. She couldn't risk missing from above again.

"Go back to the surface," he rasped, gasping for air. She didn't move.

"What do you want to do?"

"Don't care about me," he said and turned away. The flames in the fireplace continued their gruesome dance.

"I'm not going," came her voice from behind, firmer than before.

"Yes, you are. Tell them I held you captive."

"But that's not true! I'm not going!"

Nothing broke the following silence but the occasional cracks of the burning fire. After a few minutes, though, the soft thuds of her steps approached him, then he felt the lightest touch on his back – _her_ touch. He turned to her now that she was standing beside him – and her eyes were full of some foreign trepidation, one that seemed to be a gentle concern…

"What is that you haven't told me?" He asked suspiciously.

There was only the briefest hesitation before she spoke again, her voice soft and apologetic. "Madame Giry told me how you got to the opera house."

It took him a whole breath until his mind registered her words and then tore himself away from her palm. _Why…?_

"It's over, isn't it?"

The mask and wig were torn away in one motion and he staggered to his desk, tossing the disguises on its top carelessly.

"What is it that is over?" She asked feebly. "They don't know how to come down here. I'm perfectly sure they haven't followed me."

He turned only his head to her. "Christine, I love you," he said and his face twitched so that he had to look away, but then composed himself enough to turn back to her. "If you ever pity me, do it because of that! Can you imagine how laughable it makes me feel? Constantly hoping that you may feel the same…" His voice tapered off and his eyes left hers again, only to return a moment later. "In all my life there was only one thing I could count on: my strength. I thought… that even if you could never love me back, at least you could come to find that appealing. You only saw the lack of it."

This had done it. She was muted and did nothing that indicated she would move anytime soon. It was over.

"Better if you go now. Don't let them see you leaving," he said and turned away. When after a minute she was still standing there without a sound, he repeated, firmer this time. "Go."

Finally there was some rustle of skirts, but instead of leaving she appeared beside him again.

"Must you see all of this?" He growled through his quivering breaths; he swept one arm across the table, sending papers, ink, boxes, everything to the floor with a loud crash. She shuddered. "I'm nothing."

"You're everything," she replied in a choke. "I love you."

It seemed he stopped breathing for minutes. The sound of his quivering breaths ceased to nothing and his back was still, too, though only a moment ago it was heaving with uneven gasps for air. He was far too still to her liking and she laid a palm on his back again. "Erik, I…"

At last his back lifted with his strained breathing; his posture straightened under her touch and her hand slid from its place – he looked after it uncertainly, then his eyes darted up to hers. "Me?"

Such a small, such a frail voice! It was on the verge of doubting her or believing her. Maybe it was closer to disbelief.

"Yes," she answered. His arm lifted as if reaching for her hand but then it stopped in mid-motion. For another long while he was silent.

"You have a Vicomte at you feet," he argued feebly.

"But I choose you."

It all happened so slowly. First it was just his hand that dared to touch hers, then the other hand skimmed the length of her hair, hesitating before continuing it on her back, and eventually his palm reached her waist. It didn't take long for his other arm to fold around her upper body and his face to come to rest on the top of her head.

He was shivering against her – and she was shivering with him.

Here, he was here and alive, far from danger for the time being. Madame Giry said she would never confess against him and now that she knew why not, Christine believed it wholeheartedly. It was the strangest complicity she had ever seen. There was no need for her herself to think about what to tell to the interrogator, the words came out sooner than she could have thought of them twice – and she would do it again. Anything to keep him from being hanged.

Her hold tightened on him.

It was horrible enough to see it in her mind once. _Here. He's here._

When finally she was convinced that no one would take him away in the next few minutes she pulled back; he did the same but didn't let go of her hand. She didn't want him to.

"Don't let them find you," she begged and raised her eyes to his; the pads of his fingers created the lightest touch on her cheek, doing only a mediocre job in wiping away the still present tears. Her hand clasped his tentative one to her face.

"Never," he vowed and let his hand travel down on her neck. Her free arm edged around his waist, then it was silent again.

"I can tell them you've never hurt me," she offered timidly.

"Do you think it would matter among all the others?"

"It does for me."

His eyes lingered on her lips for a long moment and it took him other long moments to venture kissing them; at first it was nothing more than a light tremble against her skin. In a short while he grew more confident, though, going as far to bury his fingers in her hair. They were moving restlessly as if he tried to hide their constant uncertainty.

"It's a shame you have to leave so soon," he wheezed as he drew back.

"Where? And why so soon?"

"They'll be looking for you, if not already. You can't be missing from above now." Here he looked down at her hand that he was still holding in his grasp, then with his other hand he reached into his pocket, pulling out a golden band. His eyes flew up to hers before speaking again. "I wish you would wear something that binds you to me," he stopped again, "if only you would want… to be my wife," he finished uneasily.

"Yes! Yes, I want." It was as if his lips tugged into the smallest smile at her enthusiasm. She'd never seen smiling him before.

The ring was pulled on her finger and the promise was sealed with another kiss.

"We can leave now," he said breathlessly afterwards.

"We?"

"You can't return on your usual way. I wouldn't let my… bride… to wander alone in such places."

His eyes glowed all the way back with uncommon happiness. It was very becoming for him, she concluded.

- o -

She was floating. Her body was weightless, her mind had neither desires nor thoughts yet, she only acknowledged feelings: the soft, warm breeze against her shoulder, the light touches on her hair, the feeling of another's presence beside her; it was peace itself. The warm strokes continued through the length of her hair, then skimmed her neck until they finally reached her shoulder. Slowly she began to realize that the warmth belonged to fingers and a palm, and now she could vaguely make out the heavy scent of the bedclothes, what brought back all memories of the past night. Her stomach fluttered with anticipation and she opened her eyes – Erik was there beside her.

"Oh, Christine…"

Now she was awake enough to notice that desperate edge of his voice but not conscious enough yet to decipher the reason behind it. She reached out to lightly touch his face. "What is it? What happened?"

A long sigh left him at her touch and he closed his eyes as if in relief. "I thought you'd regret everything what happened by the morning," he said, placing his hand atop of hers. The heat from his body reached her exposed skin, swirling around her body in a warm embrace – and it also signaled her that she had no clothes on. A quick glance at his exposed upper body was enough to realize that neither did he.

"I haven't," she answered, sweeping her thumb across his cheek. He shuddered and opened his eyes.

"I wasn't sure until you woke up." His hand left hers and hovered above her face as if asking for permission, then after a moment it came down to stroke her hair. "That's not how I planned things to happen."

"Neither did I." His fingers froze in mid-motion and she hurried to continue. "I thought my fantasies about it were just an innocent's hope for the better but reality far exceeded them. They spoke horrors of first nights in the dormitory."

"It did?" He asked, his voice small and doubting. His eyes shone with some kind of pride, though.

She felt her lips tugging into a shy smile. "Yes, it did."

Slowly his body edged closer to hers under the cover until she felt the tickle of his hairy leg on her thigh, but his restless hands never once wandered lower than the brim of the blanket. Knowing how _resourceful_ he could be otherwise it was quite a meager substitute. In a minute, though, his lips descended on her cheek, breathing a shy kiss there, then pulled back.

"Promise me you won't leave before the ceremony," he pleaded softly, brushing a thumb across her lips and closing his eyes as if speaking pained him greatly. "Please."

Her face twitched at his mournful words but she didn't allow herself to be saddened by them. It was meant to be a beautiful day. "We're going to leave this house together, we're going to the chapel together; I couldn't leave even if I wanted to." He didn't seem convinced so she leaned up to kiss him on the lips – first time on that day – and leaned back into his protective embrace. "And I've given back his ring."

Erik stiffened against her. "Christine, if he comes to your rescue…"

"He won't. I asked him not to. He won't." She placed one hand on his chest; his heart beat evenly under her palm. "Please don't seek him out, either," she pleaded. "I don't wish to spend my days with worry for either of you."

"I can take care of myself. He doesn't matter."

"Please. You yourself said he doesn't matter."

His answer came after quite a long silence. "Fine."

"Thank you." The hand she previously kept on his chest slid to the side and she ran a hesitant finger across the scar on his shoulder. "Does it still hurt?"

"A little." His eyes roamed over her face before he spoke again. "Are you still in pain?"

"A little," she repeated his words, smiling up at him. "I barely notice it anymore."

The sheets rustled as he leaned down to breathe a gentle kiss to her neck – to the exact spot where she liked it the most last night. His face lingered there even after the kiss and it reminded her how his lips caressed reverent paths on her skin only a few hours before. Inexperienced he may have been but he couldn't have been more attentive. "It was well worth it," she assured him when he didn't move away from her.

Another kiss to her neck.

His breath ruffled her hair and bathed her neck in short, warm waves until he finally drew back. He was silent for several minutes, moving his fingers in slow circles in her hair before speaking again.

"Christine, I love you," he breathed.

"I love you, too." His expression softened at her words a little, and one of her hands shyly crawled to his nape. "What time is it?" She asked him.

His gaze fell briefly to regard her ministrations. "Seven thirty."

"Will you help me to dress?"

"Of course," answered softly, brushing back a curl behind her ear.

"For if it is so, I have plenty of time until I have to begin preparing," she finished with a small smile.

And he knew exactly what that meant.


End file.
